To Wait
by Mirror Of Words
Summary: Until now, I wait for you. In this abandoned house, emptied of all traces of what there was before. Emptied of everything, except me. Who continues to wait. To wait for the day, when you will trudge through that door once more. And I will continue to wait until that day arrives. [mild descriptions of violence, gore]


Title: To Wait  
Full Summary: Until now, I wait for you. In this abandoned house, emptied of all traces of what there was before. Emptied of everything, except me. Who continues to wait. To wait for the day, when you will trudge through that door once more, whether with your arms crossed and a look of hatred on your face, or a smile, saved for no-one, no-one but the fateful doll that had stuck to you, consoling you in its silent way, allowing you to vent your anger on it, loving you and basking in your love silently. And I will continue to wait until that day arrives.  
Rating: T  
Pairing: None  
Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort

Image: Found on MMD Wikia, XD don't own of course.

Disclaimer: I do not own Vocaloid. They belong to their respectful owners.

I'll wait, no matter how long...

Okay, maybe some of you will recognise this? This used to be a very, very horrible attempt at trying to cook up a story, unedited, no attempt to edit it. Horrible. Very, very horrible. I felt so horrible I actually couldn't sleep well at night, and the next took it down. Today, it is this.

Warning: Implied murder, I guess.

Comments, critisms are welcome and appreciated.

* * *

You used to be like a refined flower.

Everyone loved you. Everyone treated you like the graceful, delicate little flower you were, needing to be treated with the utmost care. You were everything a person looked up to, everything a person admired. You were smart, able to solve any problem with ease. You were beautiful, everyday dressed up gorgeously. Everyone viewed you as a petite, perfect girl. Stunning. Lovely. Absolutely lovable. How everyone tried to get on your good side, it made people jealous. How everyone loved you so.

But you never really loved them the way they loved you. They showered you with gifts, with affection, with everything a girl like you could want. Even your parents loved you tremendously. They work hard to ensure your happiness and pour out everything for you. But you never returned their love. The only one you really loved was me. The only one you would save those genuine smiles for, the smiles that radiate pure joy and happiness, vibrant like the sunrays through the dark clouds, is me. The only one you would truly be happy with, the only one you truly enjoyed being accompanied with, is me.

And, of course, I enjoyed it just the same.

Other than me, you shunned everyone, everything out of your little world. Your friends, your family, seniors, juniors, everyone, everything. Once in a while, you would allow them entry, just for a few moments – to which they are very grateful, to which they feel very fortunate to receive. But once those few moments pass, everything ends. You would begin to scream at them. No matter where, no matter when. "Shut up! Stay the hell away from me! Stay away!"

It was like that. Every single time. No-one knew why. It was understandable with your parents – you said to me once, "Stupid daddy left mommy just for this good-for-nothing woman. That's why I hate them. Both of them." I can understand that. But to shun out your friends, who genuinely cared for you? I never could understand that.

For what seemed like forever, you did that. Every day, when you returned home from school, you never spared a greeting for your parents. You stomped to your room, as fast as you could. Once you entered your room, you locked the door. Ignore the concerned calls of your parents. Face me, smiling, brimming with happiness you reserved for me and only me. Pick me up and crushed me into a hug, squealing with delight, those greetings you should give not me, but your parents. "Hi, Mimi! I missed you so! I just couldn't stop thinking about you! I hope you didn't miss me too much, Mimi!"

Then you would be holed up in your room, hugging me idly. Talking to me, or maybe no-one in particular. About anything, really. What the teacher said in school. What the students said to you. What you said to them. You would talk to me, constantly. Not stopping. Not bothering the knocks outside the door until they became ear-deafeningly loud. Then you would stand from sitting on your bed, still clutching me in your hands, and screaming towards the door, "Shut up! Go away! Leave me alone!"

Your parents would open the door, either by force or retrieving the key for the door. You would yell at them, cower away from them. They would attempt to console you for a while, attempt to reassure you, but you wouldn't accept it. You would continue to scream at them. Then they would begin to use force. Restrain you. Drag you out of the room. You would be screaming, shouting, trying to break free from their grasp. "Let me go! Let me go!" They would snatch me away from your hands, and your screams would heighten in volume. "No! Mimi! Mimi, help! Help!" But there was nothing I could do but watch you be pulled away by your parents and be haunted by your ear-piercing screams. Then, silence.

After what would seem like forever, you would return. Arms crossed, eyes red and puffy from crying. You would stare daggers at me with a dejected look. Lock your door once more. Then you would begin screaming at me. "How could you! I hate you!" You would beat me with your fists, and throw me against the wall. I could do nothing but silently accept them. I deserve it, after all, for not being able to do anything for you but silently console you, which doesn't do you much. After awhile, you would sit quietly by yourself. And soon enough, you would pick me up, take me into an affectionate hug, and apologise to me. "I'm sorry, Mimi. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean any of it, alright? I was just angry. Not at you, of course. I'm so sorry."

And I would silently accept those apologies. Just as I always do.

And, soon enough, the cycle would repeat itself.

Until one day. And that day just happened to make you fall into what you are today.

You were sitting in front of the television, me grasped tightly in your hands as you channel-surfed idly whilst speaking nonsensical things to me. Then, abruptly, you stopped.

Your attention was drawn to the television. Or, to word it more precisely, the person being featured on the television programme.

It was a woman, dressed in a frilled pink dress. She was poised on her tiptoes, tiptoeing across the room with the utmost grace. At times she would leap, and times she would twirl. Every movement was laced with refined grace, mastered by what must be years of practice. You were mesmerised by each and every movement of the woman, no matter how small. You demanded from your mother, what was the woman in the television doing. She told you, she was dancing.

That was when you fell in love with dancing.

Every day, you surfed the internet using your computer, searching for things regarding dancing. Whatever information you found, you accepted. When was dancing first made. Who were famous dancer. To what did they dance to. When. How. You searched for videos of people dancing. Men dance, and so do women. But the only video that truly snagged your attention was the identical one you saw on television. Every day you watched it. Every day you would follow the woman's movement with your fingers. You would tell me about how you want to be a dancer yourself. Then, one day, you stood, and danced, following the movements of the woman on the screen. Never stopping, not for food, not for showering, not for rest. Not for anything. Your parents would tell you to stop. But, of course, you never listened. You became extremely brash to anyone or anything that tried to stop you from it. Yelling at your parents. Hitting them. Actually hurting them. Not going to school. Neglecting everything outside the boundaries of dancing. Until they started using force on you. Your screams were ghastly. There was an edge in it that never was there, not even once. It was as if you were turning into a monster. It hurt to see you that way.

It hurt.

And then, one day, you did it.

You were sick of it. Sick of them interrupting you from doing what you poured out your passion for. You whispered to me, your voice laced – there was only one way to describe it – malice. Perhaps, it could be called insanity. You whispered to me, while stroking me fur affectionately.

"I hate them, Mimi," you said. "They keep interrupting me from what I really want. Interrupting me from finding my happiness. So, I've decided, it's time to end it once and for all. Soon, when I'm sure they're asleep, I'll do it. I'm going to grab the sharpest knife from the kitchen, and I'm going to kill them. Yes, that's right. That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to kill them. It's their fault for trying to stop me. So I'm going to kill them. I'm going to kill them."

You continued to whisper to me, those few words. And I – as all I could do – listened attentively.

And, sure enough, you did it.

You returned to the room once the deed was done. The moonlight leaking through the window glinted off the blade of the knife, stained with rust-coloured splotches. You were smiling at me, that smile you reserved for me and only me. Blood was smeared against your face and stained your silver nightgown heavily.

"I did it, Mimi." You said to me. "I did it."

Since then, no-one disturbed you, to your bliss. You loaded the video on loop. Every second, every minute, every hour. You mimicked the woman's graceful movements. You did not feel the need to worry about anything else. You stopped for nothing. Nothing at all. Not for provisions, not to clean yourself, not for anything. Not for hugging me, not for stroking my fur affectionately, not for talking to me as you always would. Not for anything. Even when you mastered every movement being played on the screen. Even when you mastered the gracefulness needed for a refined dancer. You never stopped. You never stopped.

And it hurt.

It hurt to see you that way.

Don't you know how much it hurts? Don't you know how much it hurt for your parents? How concerned they were for you? How they would stop you by force, while it tore apart their insides? How it hurt when the cold, unforgiving tip of the knife in your hands pierced their hearts? Don't you know how much it hurts for me? To see you grow weaker and weaker by the day? To see the colour in your cheeks slowly fade away, along with your health? To see your movements seem more and more mechanical, like a twisted marionette being manipulated?

But of course, you did not. You were oblivious to everything outside the world revolving around you.

And so, even though I was filled with the utmost dread, I wasn't surprised – prepared, even – when your leaps turned into meager attempts, when your twirls turned into ditzy stumbles, when, with a few stumbles, you fell onto the ground, like a puppet with its strings snapped.

And it hurt.

It hurt to see you that way.

You would twitch. Try to lift yourself out, and fail miserably. Try to drag yourself across the room, and fail. And then you stilled.

Is this it, Mayu? Is this the happiness you sought? Is this the happiness you wished to reach? Is this the happiness you wished for when you neglected taking care of yourself, when you killed your parents? Is this it?

Of course, it isn't.

And it hurts. Not only you, but me.

It hurts.

And so, when people – officials, presumably arriving because of the screams of your parents heard by your neighbours – came to take you away, you did not resist. You did not thrash about as you would before, you did not scream, you did not clutch onto me, your only lifeline to maintain your sanity, you did not scream for my help. After all, you were merely a discarded puppet, long gone, long since losing its purpose. You did nothing, when they carried you away.

No, you did do something. Now, I remember, as I reminiscence. You, slung over a burly man's shoulder, lifted your head and smiled at me. The corners of your eyes glistened. You mouthed, I'll be back, Mimi. Wait for me.

And I, Mimi, as your fateful doll, did. Until now, I wait for you. In this abandoned house, emptied of all traces of what there was before - of how a murder occurred, of how a girl who had so much passion into dancing that everything else was forgotten. Emptied and on sale, with no-one willing to buy a house with such a horrible past. Emptied of everything, except me. Who continues to wait.

To wait for the day, when you will trudge through that door once more, whether with your arms crossed and a look of hatred on your face, or a smile, saved for no-one, no-one but the fateful doll that had stuck to you, consoling you in its silent way, allowing you to vent your anger on it, loving you and basking in your love silently.

And I will continue to wait until that day arrives.

* * *

So, how was it? Does it still need work? I think it does, and I might come back to this soon. Hopefully.

With that said, I hope you enjoyed it. I wasn't sure what genre to label this as, actually, so yeah.

Till next time, farewell! :3


End file.
